"Hendrix!"
Florian's voice cracked through the empty corridors, the sound echoing back at him like a plea that no one wanted to answer.
His chest heaved, breath ragged from running, his throat raw from shouting.
The palace halls were deserted. Every servant was preoccupied with the ball—pouring wine, carrying trays, tending to the nobles and their endless demands.
The distant music and laughter bled faintly through the stone walls, a cruel reminder of the celebration still alive while he fell apart.
But Florian hadn't seen Hendrix since the beginning of the night. Not near the ballroom. Not beside Monica.
Not among the crowd.
Which could only mean one thing.
He had to be nearby.
Watching.
Waiting.
Because where else would Hendrix be?
He always lurked, always appeared at the most inconvenient, precise moments.
"Hendrix!" Florian called again, louder, his voice breaking on the name.
Silence.
The shadows did not stir.
The air remained still.
